Tom came back with a wedge of pudding large enough for the whole Round Table and some
“What are you thinking about so earnestly? I could see your beetling brows all the way across the room. Have you solved Chat's case? Does Dr. Hubbard have his hand in the till? Although from what I understand about the finances of places like Hubbard House and how difficult it is to keep them going, there can't be much to spare. Farley told me Roland Hubbard has never asked anyone to leave—even when the money ran out.'
“I think that's why we're here tonight. It's kind of a scholarship fundraiser. As to what I have been thinking about, you're right. I'm still looking for the skeleton in the closet.”
Tom took a last colossal bite of pudding and said, 'Let's tread a few measures, then go home. I know Samantha is spending the night and wedon't have to rush, but I'd like to get to bed myself.'
“Me too,' Faith answered demurely.
It was handy—no, more than handy, definitely a gift from the gods—to have a baby-sitter next door, and Faith prayed unabashedly that Samantha's devotion to Ben would continue for years to come. After all, there were lots of excellent colleges in the area. Since tonight was a school night, she was sleeping over. Faith shuddered as she remembered what Lizzie's mother, Arlene, had told her last week—that she had called twelve people and still had not been able to find a sitter. Faith couldn't in good conscience wish zits or perpetual bad breath on Samantha, but she did wish that the fifteen-year-old would continue her pattern of infrequent dating or find someone steady and settle down immediately—preferably in front of the Fairchild fireplace watching Ben.
Tom and Faith danced their last dance and prepared to take their leave. Tom was exchanging phone numbers with Bill Winter. They had both gone to the same high school on the South Shore, although a few years apart. New England was often like that, Faith had discovered. If it wasn't someone Tom had grown up with, then it was someone from college or a cousin of someone who knew his brother. A village.
Faith turned and realized that Eddie Russell had slithered up to her side. 'Ready for our dance? You promised, remember?' He smiled, and he did have a captivating smile. Tom was still wrapped up replaying the Norwell- Hanover Thanksgiving game of 1976, so she decided to dance with Eddie. Purely for research; the man was such a sleaze.
“I do remember. I didn't promise, but let's dance anyway.”
They walked to the dance floor and started to dance. The orchestra provided a plaintive rendition of 'Memories' and Eddie went into his dancing mode, closing his eyes slightly and humming tunefully along with the music. He began to pull her closer in gradually increasing increments, and at the same time his hand began to ascend from her silk-covered waist to her bare back. At the first touch of vertebrae, Faith said, 'Get your hand off my back, Edsel dear, and don't do it again.'
“Come on, Faith, you didn't wear a dress like this for no reason.”
Faith stopped dancing and stepped back, still in his arms.
“Why don't you go do to yourself what you have in mind to do to me?' she told him succinctly.
It took him a moment to get it, and he flushed angrily. She was walking away by then.
“Is that any way for a minister's wife to talk?' he called after her.
“Probably not,' she answered, and went to find Tom. Definitely time to go home.
They said good night to Denise, who had gotten a strong second wind somewhere and slowed her hectic recreation of the twist to beg them to stay. 'You can't go yet! The party's just starting and the band is playing all these oldies. I've requested ahustle next. It's such a hoot!' She seemed genuinely excited about the prospect, but the Fairchilds, less enthusiastic, said good night again and threaded their way through the writhing dancers.
Out on the sidewalk, while they waited for their car to be brought around, they were joined by Donald and Charmaine. Charmaine was leaning on Donald's arm ever so slightly and had a determinedly gallant look on her face. What exactly was it she had survived? Faith wondered. Their car arrived first and Donald tenderly helped her in. 'She's very tired,' he told them, and drove off quickly.
Tom and Faith laughed. 'After your description of her with the moldly leftovers, I didn't think Charmaine could provide much more amusement, but I should have known better. Women like that are a never-ending source.”
They got into the car to drive home, first detouring to drive past the lights on Boston Common. Garlands of red, blue, green, and gold were strung in the bare tree branches like jeweled necklaces, gaudy but beautiful trimmings against the sedate brick townhouses lining Beacon Street behind them. A parking space appeared—too good to waste—and Tom and Faith walked up to the state house totally surrounded by the ancient trees and their unaccustomed diadems. They strolled back to the car reluctantly, and as they turned west on Storrow Drive away from the distraction of the lights, Faith realized that Charmaine hadn't been carrying her enormous purse. Nor had Donald.
She didn't seem the type to forget her essentials. Nor mislay them. It was puzzling.
The next morning—or actually the same morning—arrived too soon, but they managed to get themselves up and even dressed and fed. Ben was revoltingly cheerful.
“I must be getting old,' Tom said. 'I used to get by on a lot less sleep than this and be loaded for bear the following morning.'
“What a curious expression that is,' Faith commented. 'But it's true—I really feel it the next morning when I've been out late. I blame Benjamin and all the sleep deprivation we suffered when he was a baby. We just haven't caught up. One good thing though: when we're in our eighties, we won't need so much sleep and we can stay out as late as we want.'
“Great. By the way, were you also thinking of waiting until then for Ben the Sequel?' Tom had been subtly and not so subtly hinting for some months that it was sibling time for Ben.
“You never know.' Faith smiled and got into her car. She was not opposed to having another baby. It was just hard to cross that bridge from nice idea to fact. And it wasn't as if they were not trying. They just weren't trying— and all the un-spontaneous counting of days that involved.
Mrs. Pendergast was already up to the salads when Faith arrived and, contrary to all Faith's expectation, was full of curiosity about the ball. She wanted to know what everyone had been wearing, what they had eaten, what Dr. Hubbard hadsaid in his speech, and so forth. Faith was happy to oblige and was rewarded by an unguarded comment or two from Mrs. P.
After Faith had described the gowns of Leandra Rhodes and Bootsie Brennan, Mrs. Pendergast chuckled. 'Those two! They hate each other like poison. Each thinks the other is purposely working against her. You should have seen the fur fly when Mrs. Rhodes started a fund drive sponsored by the Residents' Council to buy books for the library. Well, according to Mrs. Brennan, that was taking over the job of the Auxiliary. They were the only ones who were supposed to raise money for Hubbard House. Mrs. Rhodes said if so why weren't they doing a better job of stocking the library, and Mrs. Brennan said it was her impression that most residents had their own books, and finally the whole thing ended up in Dr. Hubbard's lap, as usual, and he just put them both in charge of the thing, as usual. So Mrs. Rhodes gets all the residents to donate what they can and Mrs. Brennan goes outside. It's pretty even. Then Mrs. Brennan's son comes up with some huge secret donation and it looked like she'd won. But Mrs. Rhodes turned around and got a secret one herself. Of course everybody figured out soon enough it was their own money.”
Faith laughed. 'It sounds like it must be some library. I'll have to take a closer look.'
“It is, but they raised so much money that in the end they decided to put most of it in the general fund, because you know—though I hate to say it—the people here do have their own books or go over to the town library, and they never really needed so many books in the first place.'
“Why do you hate to say it?' Faith asked.
Mrs. Pendergast looked over her shoulder and muttered under her breath, 'Never cared much for Mrs. Brennan—Bootsie, what kind of name is that for a woman anyway? Even for a cat it's going some. Always wanting to know 'What are we giving them today, Mrs. P.?' She's never scraped a carrot in her life, that one.”
Faith sympathized. It looked like Cyle and the mater were cut from the same cloth. 'What does Mr. Brennan do?' she asked Mrs. Pendergast, although Tom would know.
“It's what he did. Died and left a rich widow a year after they were married. Right after his son was born.”
Faith stifled the remark that was called for—something along the lines of 'took one look,' or 'how did he stand it a year?'—and got busy with the bread.
